


so that I might not break

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Relationship, Slow Build, description of non con/dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a certain incident in Holmes's past that he has never dealt with, and now that he and Watson might be becoming something more it's causing him to crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a written a while ago for SH Kink meme. it's post GoS and assumes that at some point Mary dies and Watson returns to Baker Street.

Their sitting room has acquired a new layer of dust. That's the first thing Holmes notices as he and Watson stumble into the room, leaning against each other for support both from laughter and pain. Apparently Mrs Hudson took him seriously this time when he'd warned her against moving any of his things around. Good. He takes off his coat and lets it fall where it may, striding over to his pipe as Watson sits down in his chair and shakes his head with a fond chuckle.

"You are asking for it sometimes, Holmes," he says.

"As I recall you were right behind me," Holmes replies. He turns around, nudging the end of his pipe into his mouth, and their eyes meet. Watson is looking at him with an expression that seems oddly fond, a genuine smile curving his lips. It's the sort of smile that Holmes hasn't seen since before Watson met Mary and left Baker Street and then returned, and abruptly the words that are on the tip of his tongue evaporate.

"Yes, well, I'm not really sure that says anything about the state of either of our minds." Watson sighs into the silence and sets his cane down. "Let me see your chest, old boy. That man caught you quite hard on your ribs with his baton."

"It doesn't hurt," says Holmes. "Nothing is broken. Do stop being such a mother hen."

Watson just rolls his eyes. "I'd be more inclined to let you be if I didn't know you've ignored broken bones before. I'll not be awoken at four in the morning because you've discovered that it hurts after all. Let me see."

He pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly, and approaches with his hands raised to begin his examination. Holmes's eyes fall on those outstretched limbs and abruptly he flinches away, nearly dropping his pipe. Watson stops, amazed and then concerned, as Holmes slides around to the other side of the couch, leaving a good distance between them.

"Holmes?" he asks carefully.

"Fine. I'm fine. I've just - yes." He leaves behind that utter lack of decent explanation and escapes into his room, closing the door behind him. His heart is pounding and it has nothing to do with the adrenaline of the case. For a moment, a split second, his mind betrayed him and he'd seen someone different reaching for him. 

And now he's not sure what bothers him more: the fact that even after all of these years and repeated purging he still remembers Victor Trevor, or that for this brief moment in time he'd seen Victor's cruel intent in Watson's kind face and hands.

\--

It’s a full two days before Holmes ventures out of his bedroom, and then only when the flat has been silent for a substantial amount of time. As expected there is no sign of Watson, and a quick perusal of the room is enough to tell him that Watson has been called out, likely summoned by one of the few patients he still looks after, which means he’ll likely be gone for some time. Relived, he sinks down onto the lounge after packing his pipe. His mind has been going around in useless circles for hours, an exercise he finds abhorrent, but with no outside stimulant to make it stop there is no helping the matter. 

Victor Trevor. How many times he has tried to erase that name, those memories, from his mind?

Equal to the amount of times he has failed.

Holmes shudders, a quick jerk to the shoulders that would have gone unnoticed had anyone been in the room with him, and surges up, eagerly searching the mantel for anything that might prove enough of a challenge to quiet his mind. But there is nothing beyond the trivial sort of cases that he can solve without ever leaving the room, affairs and petty thievery and even a missing cat that he can tell has merely run away. There is _nothing_ and so he will have to find his own distraction, some way of quieting the tempest.

He finds it in an experiment, one that has fallen by the wayside in lieu of a case. The cultures have grown mould and he needs to start over and he is all too eager, tending to each step with a care and precision that seems unnatural but which feels right. He works until finally his head falls to his chest and he sinks into an exhausted stupor, pipe striking the table with a resounding clang that doesn’t even rouse him, and there he stays until Watson returns hours later.

“Oh Holmes,” he sighs, spotting his friend immediately. He takes off his hat and coat and sets his cane aside before approaching, mindful of what happened the last time. He doesn’t want to chase Holmes back into his bedroom, not when the man looks as though a stiff breeze will be sufficient to push him over. He stops a foot or so away and says, “Holmes, wake up. You’ll give yourself a pain if you sleep like that for much longer.”

“Mmm… Watson?” Holmes mutters, the word slurred, peering around in confusion. The act of lifting his head seems to take too much. His eyes start to flutter shut again and Watson acts quickly, taking his arm and pulling him to his feet. He’s prepared for when Holmes slumps against him, head falling against Watson’s chest. He winds an arm around Holmes’s waist, noticing the distinct lack of padding around his ribs, and shakes his head, steering Holmes over to the lounge. 

Holmes topples over like a marionette without any strings, legs hanging off of the end and arms askew. Rolling his eyes, Watson prods him into a more comfortable position. He fetches a blanket and spreads it over his friend as Holmes curls up tighter. His task is done and he can retire, but he lingers for a moment, watching Holmes, who seems strangely young without those familiar lines on his face. Yet there is something cautious in the way Holmes holds himself even in sleep, with his arms and legs pulled close to his body as though something might attack.

What, he wonders with increasing dread, has happened to Holmes to make him so fearful?

\---

The feel of a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, wakes Holmes. He comes back to consciousness with a startled shout he can't quite contain, heart pounding and adrenaline surging, halfway off the far side of the lounge before his mind recognizes that it's Watson standing over him: just Watson. His old friend is wearing his night clothing and his hair is mussed, indicating he is - was - sleeping. There's a candle in his hand which he sets aside, resting it gently on the edge of the desk before he reaches out and takes hold of Holmes's arm, pushing the sleeve up swiftly to examine the inside of his elbow.

"I've taken nothing,” says Holmes defensively, the familiar ritual soothing in spite of that. Watson’s thumb rubs over the crease of his flesh and gradually his thudding heart begins to slow. He realizes that his hands are shaking a little, a remnant of too little sleep and a sudden awakening. 

“You were calling out in your sleep,” Watson says, looking down into his face. His eyes search Holmes intently, looking for some sign that he has ingested a concoction by some other method. The last time Holmes had suffered from fevered dreams, it resulted in a row that lasted for days after Watson found out what exactly he’d taken. 

“I didn’t - it was just a dream,” he mumbles, lowering his gaze to where Watson’s hand still cups his arm. His thumb is rubbing gentle circles. The touch, unused to it as Holmes is, makes him feel odd. He doesn’t know whether he ought to be leaning further into it and seeking more, or drawing back for the sake of propriety even though they are alone in the sitting room and he normally doesn’t care for such contrivances. He lets out a breath in a slow sigh. Though he doesn’t remember the dream, he knows what - or rather, who it was about.

“Holmes, I’m worried about you. You locked yourself up in your bedroom without any food and I know you weren’t sleeping, either. It’s been at least four days since you ate.”

“I haven’t been hungry.” It’s the simple truth but it doesn’t make the degree of concern on Watson’s face lighten. The thought of consuming anything makes his stomach feel ill. He attempts a smile. “Come now, old cock, you’re mother henning me again.”

“If that’s what it takes so be it,” comes the quiet reply. “I won’t wake Mrs Hudson at this time of the night, but come morning I expect you to sit down with me and eat, Holmes.”

Holmes grimaces at the idea, but nods. He knows from experience that he can only push the good doctor so far. And it won’t do to be too weak to answer the next summons from Lestrade. “Very well. In the morning,” he agrees, noting from a glance out the window that morning is still a few hours off at least. It’s still dark outside, the blackness only just broken by faint tinges of golden light.

“Good.” Finally Watson releases his arm, though not without one last lingering caress that makes Holmes feel lightheaded. His friend takes a step back, leaving a hint of distance between them. He hesitates and then asks, “Holmes, who is Victor?”

Hearing the name spoken out loud is akin to being in the boxing ring and receiving an unexpected blow to the stomach. It doesn’t happen often, but it is always unpleasant. Holmes draws in a sharp breath, almost a gasp. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I told you, you called out when you were sleeping.”

If he brushes Watson off, Holmes knows from experience that Watson will pursue the matter until he has a satisfying answer. Telling the truth is out of question, so - “A friend, Watson, from when I was young. We parted on poor terms several years ago.”

Watson doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, “I see.”

And Holmes is rather afraid that he is beginning to.

\---

Nothing has ever happened between them. It’s all there, of course, fraught with a unique sort of tension that not even Holmes, inexperienced though he may be when it comes to this sort of thing, can ignore, but the physical aspect is a step neither man has ever dared to broach. After that, though, after _that_ night and the next morning when Holmes actually does sit down and eat breakfast, it changes. He can see it in Watson’s face and eyes when the man looks at him, the naked affection that is enough, on occasion, to actually silence Holmes in the middle of one of his deductions. 

It’s there when Watson tends to him after cases and boxing matches, when they share a wicked grin after a brawl, even when Mrs Hudson is scolding him for letting his newest experiment grow mould on the kitchen table and Watson, who would normally be on her side, can’t quite hide his smile even with the help of a ducked head and his moustache.

Still, in spite of that Holmes isn’t expecting anything to change. Even with the unspoken knowledge lingering between them he’s never thought that either of them would ever act. Watson for obvious reasons and Holmes for reasons he would much rather forget. So on one warm morning about a fortnight after their talk in the middle of the night, no one is more stunned than him when Watson kisses him for the very first time.

He’s been working on an experiment but the temperature keeps throwing it off. Unseasonable heat has descended like steam across London and their rooms are hot and sticky, congealing the results before he even get the chance to examine them. Frustrated, he’s taken to violently playing his violin and grimacing every so often when a particularly rough draw of the bow across the strings causes the scar on his back shoulder to ache. It doesn’t hurt often, but when it does the burn can be very painful indeed. Holmes is prepared to ignore that if the discordant sounds of the instrument will soothe his racing thoughts but someone else isn’t.

“Holmes.” Watson’s hand lands lightly on his elbow, not pressing, just there, a soft presence that can’t be ignored. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” The implied ‘again’ hangs at the end of that sentence and Holmes huffs. Normally he’d make a comment about mother henning, but he has been playing for so long that his shoulder really does ache quite a bit. He slides the bow across the strings one last time just because he can before letting his arms fall to his sides. 

“I’m bored,” he says simply.

“I believe all of Baker Street knows you’re bored.” 

Holmes smirks and turns, leaning down to place his violin and bow away in the case. The back of his neck prickles and he realizes that it’s the weight of Watson’s gaze on him, and suddenly the room feels much warmer indeed. Flushed, he straightens but doesn’t turn. “I thought you were out with your friend.”

“That was hours ago, Holmes,” Watson replies, sounding exasperated. “Do you ever pay attention to anything but yourself?”

“On occasion, when it serves me.” He does turn, then, and they are close, much closer than he’s anticipating, and that’s when it happens. Light, so light he wonders if he’s hallucinated, just the touch of lips and a brush of hair against his cheek and then Watson has pulled away, retreated, with a significant look.

“When it serves you to let me know that you’re thinking of someone else, I’ll be waiting,” is all that he says as he disappears into his bedroom, leaving a shocked Holmes behind.


	2. Chapter 2

From a young age Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have many friends and it quickly becomes obvious that he will never make many. He is eccentric, they say, small and childish with eyes beyond his years. Though he tries very hard not to care that is easier said than done, so when he meets a young man in his university years, a man with a boyish grin and a small dog that has a peculiar fondness for ankles and the sharp teeth with which to gnaw on them, he is happy. In due course his ankle healed and the wound was forgotten, replaced by others, worse, inflicted upon the soul.

Perhaps that is why Watson’s kiss feels as though it has been branded upon his cheek.

Not for the first time Holmes examines his appearance, searching for any physical sign of that kiss, but of course there is nothing and he knows that there won’t be. His face looks the same as always, with the sole exception being that he is clean shaven fir cibe, needing to see every inch of bare skin. He leans back and sighs, scrubbing a hand through already unruly hair. It feels as though Watson’s kiss, chaste though it may have been, has set free all of the illicit and frankly irritating emotions he has always managed to hold back. He has no idea what to do now.

He sits upon his bed and takes up his violin, plucking absently at the strings. It is nearly impossible to believe that Watson would - _could_ \- behave in the manner that Holmes is most familiar with. Indeed, Watson has made the first move and that in itself points to a certain amount of acquiesce on his part. But at the same time there is a pesky little voice in the back of his mind urgently pointing out that he had not expected that of Victor, either. It is, he has discovered, appallingly easy to read the signs incorrectly and the thought of making another mistake is intolerable.

Watson is taller than Holmes, huskier, but his leg and shoulder are obvious weak points. Holmes is fairly certain he could take Watson on should the need arise, but of course that is not taking into consideration the fact that Watson himself is Holmes’s weak point. Could he stop Watson? Would he want to? Or would he allow it to happen, as he had allowed Victor to have his way all those years ago? He’s not wholly certain he can allow that sort of damage to his body, not when Lestrade has been bringing a healthy amount of cases around as of late. The work must not suffer. So perhaps it is best that they abstain.

And yet in spite of that reasonable conclusion there is something within him that protests the idea, persists that Watson is a good man who would be as honourable in this as he is in everything else. The conflict is one that Holmes has no idea how to resolve, and so he sits, alone, with only the quiet sound of his violin for company as the day draws to a close.

\---

He dreams about Victor, about the night when things between them went so terribly wrong, that night at the estate that he can’t forget. He wakes up with the taste of Victor’s name on his lips and resolves not to sleep again, but he is tired and even his body cannot go without sleep forever. It has been a fortnight since Watson’s kiss and they have not discussed the matter since but Holmes’s mind refuses to lay it to rest, even though to all appearances Watson has forgotten that it ever occurred. In fact, aside from the occasional meaningful glance that could easily be discarded as something else entirely, things between them have been entirely proper.

Holmes hates it.

Wearily he rolls off of the sofa and crashes to the floor, his knees aching from the impact. He crawls across to the fireplace and gropes around the mantle until he finds his pipe. There is a fresh stack of his favourite tobacco waiting – Watson’s doing, no doubt – and he packs it with shaking hands. It takes even longer for it to light, but finally there is a thin veil of smoke rising from the end. His throat aches as he slots it into his mouth and takes a deep breath. For once, not even the soothing rush brings him any calm and he shuts his eyes, tugging absently at his hair, fingers woven into the thin strands. 

This is _intolerable_. How do other people do this so easily? Let themselves go and weather the consequences? None of it makes any sense, mind and body at war, and it makes him ache, somewhere deep inside where his medications of choice, scoff though Watson would at the idea of calling them medications, cannot reach. He presses close to the fire, smouldering in the grate, and shuts his eyes.

An undeterminable amount of time later there are familiar hands on his shoulders, pulling him gently but firmly away from the fire, and Watson is saying, “Holmes. Holmes.” in that urgent voice that means he’s been upset in some way. It takes a moment for his words to full penetrate. “Holmes,” he is saying, “Holmes, what are you doing to yourself?”

“Watson?” Holmes feels very sluggish and he is inclined to think that he has overly indulged before realizing that, in fact, he has not indulged at all. How very curious. He watches with half open eyes as Watson lifts him, the pain in his wounded shoulder from the additional weight ignored, and sits him down on the lounge. Immediately Watson begins checking his pulse and his eyes and placing a hand on his forehead and it’s too much, it’s _too much_. He must make some sort of unconscious sound because Watson’s frantic motions still.

“Holmes,” he says again, like it’s the only thing he has left to say, and then he hugs him. Watson hugs him, wrapping his arms around Holmes’s body, and it’s odd but not frightening, not unwelcome. He turns his head into Watson’s shoulder, and Watson sighs and says, “You’re lost so much weight, you fool. I’m on the verge of tying you down and forcing food into your mouth.”

Perhaps it’s the imagery, too closely paired to what he can’t make himself forget, but Holmes shudders and tries to pull away only to find that his body is actually clinging very tightly to Watson, prolonging the embrace for far longer than Watson likely intended. He can’t walk away but he can’t stay and for a moment it’s like the battle, one more for the war, will tear him apart, but then Watson settles a hand on his back and begins to rub small, concentric circles. Not confining, just warm pressure, and slowly something wound tight in his chest relaxes and he goes boneless, slumping against Watson, not wanting to think anymore.

After a handful of minutes have gone by, Watson begins to speak. His chest rumbles beneath Holmes’s cheek as he says, “I want you to tell me what’s going on. I _know_ there is something bothering you and I am concerned. I’ve been watching you, Holmes, and you’re starting to frighten me. Is it... have I crossed a line?” His voice grows uncertain and the steady pace of his hand stutters for a split second. “Should I not have...”

“No,” Holmes says immediately, so vehemently that Watson actually starts a little. “I didn’t... That is to say, I quite...” He trails off and exhales into Watson’s chest, frustrated. Why won’t the words come out? He closes his eyes, keenly aware of the fact that Watson is peering down at the top of his head, but as long as he can’t see Watson’s kind face he won’t have to worry about what might come. “I... I liked it, what you did,” he mumbles at last.

“Oh,” Watson says, and then, “Oh, well, that’s alright, then. But what is it that has you in such disarray? Is it a case? Is there something wrong with your brother? Or perhaps one of your old chums from school?” He sounds like he knows none of those guesses are right, but it’s just like Watson to be purposely wrong in order to draw out the side of Holmes that so enjoys being right. Watson can be clever like that when he wants to be. It’s enough to make a very small smile pass over Holmes’s face. 

“You are not so far off the mark, dear boy,” he says at last. “The matter is concerning one of my... a man I knew while I was younger.” There is a part of him that feels ill at the idea of calling Victor his _anything_ and, as though sensing the change in tone, Watson’s arms tighten around him fractionally. The additional pressure is a relief, surprisingly, and startles more words from his mouth. “He was one of the few people who could tolerate my presence for any length of time, and in turn I felt that he was intelligent enough to warrant my attention. We met quite by accident, actually. His dog bit me on the ankle. I still have a scar on my right leg. It’s a curious thing, that scar, to look at it one would never think it had come from the mouth of a small dog. I’ve done research on scars, incidentally, did you know – ”

“Holmes.” Watson’s voice is very gentle. 

“My apologies, Watson, I do ramble so.” Holmes blinks into the comforting darkness, his fingers gripping Watson’s waistcoat so tightly they’re trembling. “Victor was... unique, at least to me, and once I had recovered from the attack we continued to pass many hours together. After a time, I discovered that our friendship had taken a different turn.” This is hard to say out loud, even though it’s just him and Watson, he has kept it locked up inside for many years and not even Mycroft knows the full story. “I... said some things that elicited a reaction from Victor that made it clear he did not see things the same way and we parted. I have not seen him since.”

There’s a moment’s pause like Watson is digesting this, sorting it through, using what he knows to come to his own conclusions, and were it any other situation Holmes would be proud. As it is, he just feels even worse than before, particularly when Watson’s arms tighten further and he says, “Holmes, you were in love with him.”

Though it is not a question, Holmes nods.

“And when you told him,” Watson sounds like he can’t catch his breath, “when you told him, Holmes, what did he do?”

And this question, simple though it may be, is one that Holmes does not want to answer, has spent years avoiding. But this is Watson, and he wants to know, he _deserves_ to know after everything that he has put up with during the past few weeks, and so he says, “It was... he had invited me to his father’s estate one weekend. His father didn’t like me much but Victor thought that was amusing. He enjoyed having a friend that his father did not approve of and I thought it was a grand joke, just one more facet of an already convoluted relationship. That night, we were...” Words fail him, which is odd because he can remember it so _perfectly_ , the taste of sweet wine and the smell of crisp tobacco and Victor’s smile, his warm laughter that lit up the room.

He says, “It was a cold night and Victor’s father had already retired. He was old, you see, and he had a bad leg that troubled him when the weather was unfortunate. It was the first time that Victor and I had truly been alone without anyone else to overhear and in my youthful zest I believed it to be the perfect time.” His voice goes flat, cold. “I told him the truth.”

Watson stirs, like there is something he wants to say, but he remains silent and Holmes is grateful for that, for the fact that his dear friend is this understanding. A good man, Watson, better than Holmes deserves.

“He was shocked, understandably, and I quickly began to realize that my initial deductions about the situation had been incorrect. That is to say, what I had perceived to be more Victor saw as simple friendship. He was disturbed that I could have read so much into his actions. He said... he wished to show me what it meant when someone truly wanted me so that I would never make that mistake again. He pushed me down onto the floor and I...” And yes, this memory is clear too, the way he’d fallen, stunned, and hadn’t fought back when Victor climbed on top of him. “I let it happen.”

“Holmes!” Watson says.

“I let it happen,” Holmes repeats firmly, because it’s true, yes? For all of his deductions and intelligence, he hadn’t tried to stop Victor, had let the man strip them both bare and part his thighs. It had hurt, burned, and he still hadn’t stopped it. “When it was over he told me that it should serve as a lesson because no one would ever want me, and that I should exercise more caution in the future so that my perversions wouldn’t taint anyone else.”

He falls silent, with nothing else to say, and wishes that he felt relieved instead of just so very tired and empty. Watson’s hand tightens on his back and the man moves like he might try to push Holmes away and, fearful of that, he clings that much harder, pushing his face into Watson’s shoulder. Watson goes still and his voice is cracking when he says, “It wasn’t your fault, Holmes. You didn’t invite him to do... that to you. I’m sorry, I – ”

“No need to apologize, old chap, I’m perfectly fine now,” Holmes mumbles, closing his eyes. Here in Watson’s arms the exhaustion can no longer be kept at bay, his old tricks of staving off sleep burned away by the comforting heat, especially when Watson’s hand begins rubbing his back once more, like the man senses his deep weariness and wishes to make him fall right here. He sighs, just once, and feels the soft impression of lips brushing over his forehead shortly before sleep claims him entirely.


	3. Chapter 3

Watson has seen a great many disturbing things in his time, of course he has, but somehow everything else pales in comparison to the here and now. Not for the first time he finds himself hovering over Holmes, who is curled up on the lounge and still asleep after his exhausting confession mere hours before. The urge to do _something_ burns him through him and makes him restless, unable to focus on either his writing or the papers or even the correspondence that Mrs Hudson has brought up, and he uselessly checks Holmes’s temperature again with a hand to the man’s forehead. Warm, but not to the point where he feels it necessary to intervene, not when the low grade fever is likely borne of exhaustion, dehydration and starvation.

He pulls back and sighs, feeling much like Holmes must when the ravages of his intelligent mind become too much and nothing is enough to occupy his attention, except for the fact that Watson is trying to _avoid_ thinking. To be frank, Holmes’s tale hasn’t exactly surprised him. He’d suspected something along those lines from the beginning and had only become more convinced as the days had gone by and Holmes’s behaviour had failed to improve. 

But it is altogether two different things to suspect something and then be told that said suspicions are true, and at the moment he wants nothing as much as he wants to find Victor Trevor and ring the man’s neck. He wonders, watching in trepidation as Holmes begins to stir, if Trevor would even know and understand why if Watson did find him, or if in the intervening years he has pushed aside all thoughts of Sherlock Holmes and the travesty he committed that night.

“Holmes?” he murmurs, trying to keep his voice gentle and soothing as the eyes of his dearest friend flutter open. He’d like to crouch down and put the two of them on the same level but his leg prevents that. He settles for maintaining a respectable distance, not sure if Holmes will be agreeable to anything further. He feels certain that this is the first time Holmes has spoken of what happened that night and it’s sure to have had some sort of effect on him.

“Watson.” Holmes looks at him briefly before closing his eyes again and sighing, a small puff of air that flutters the fringe hanging in his face. “No need to look so furious on my behalf, old boy.”

Of course, Watson thinks, of course. “I can’t help it, Holmes. What Trevor did to you is deplorable.”

“It was also a long time ago and I told you, I allowed it to happen. He did nothing to me that I did not invite,” says Holmes, finally pushing his hands beneath his body and lifting himself into a seated position. He looks unimaginably frail and small, devoid of the aura of confidence that normally allows him to fill the room with his presence. 

“You can’t truly believe that.”

“It is the truth and so I do,” comes the flat response. “I told you only because you have been kind enough to put up with my behaviour over the past few weeks. I know I’ve put you out on many occasions and you deserved to know the reason. Now that you are informed, I wish for us both to put the matter behind us.”

“Holmes.” Watson regards him incredulously. “This has been tormenting you for weeks. Years.”

“I have tried to delete it before, but I was always unsuccessful. Perhaps now I’ll have more luck.”

“No! Don’t delete it, Holmes.” He spreads his hands helplessly, bound by the urge to take Holmes into his arms again and the knowledge that such an act would not be welcomed, not right now. “Allow me to help you with it. You must know I...” He stops, cheeks colouring faintly. “I care for you, Holmes, and there is very little I would not do for you.”

“I know,” Holmes says quietly, and now he does stand, somewhat unsteadily, balancing himself on the back of the lounge. “Watson, I...”

“Yes? Watson prompts when the silence spreads, unbroken.

For a second it seems as though Holmes wishes to speak, to say something further, but at last he merely shakes his head and retreats, reaching for his pipe with hands that shake. Watson watches him with narrowed eyes, noting the details that mean Holmes is not as well as he would have the world believe. He is not going to let this matter rest, he resolves. He is going to help Holmes deal with this, regardless of what may or may not happen between them, for Holmes’s sake.

\--

The problem, though, is that Holmes doesn't want to deal with it and in particular he does not want Watson to feel obliged to help. He feels a little more rested after his sleep and the intelligent thing to do is to act as normal as possible, and for a while, as he attends to an experiment that needs to be completely re-started thanks to the growth of some interesting and unexpected mould cultures, he thinks that perhaps he has moved beyond this after all, rendering any help unnecessary. He’s aware that Watson continues to watch him for a while, but he doesn't speak and Holmes is fine with that; it's not like Watson often _observes_ anything of importance. 

Sometime towards sundown, Mrs Hudson brings them up a tray for dinner. Watson sits down at the table and waits until she's gone before he uncovers the tray and says, "I want you to come sit down and eat with me, Holmes."

"I ate this morning, my good man," Holmes responds absently, noting with annoyance that his hand is shaking minutely as he adds a small quantity of acid to his concoction. He straightens up and rubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist to remove the sweat building up. He is not hungry, no, but he is tired. Exhaustion still drags at him, even though he has slept more last night than he has in weeks. Perhaps mistakenly, he risks a glance at the lounge and sees Watson's eyes narrow slightly as a result.

"Holmes," he says warningly. "You need food and drink and then a good sleep. You're very worn down. How do you expect to deal with the next summons from Lestrade when you are in this sort of state? You wouldn’t even be able to box in your condition. One good blow would do you in.”

That's unfair, if only because it works. Holmes shucks his protective glasses and moves over to the table, eyeing the meal unhappily. The food looks unappetizing but he sits down and forces himself to partake in a few mouthfuls. After watching him for a moment longer Watson begins to eat as well and a silence settles over them, broken only by the clattering of their silverware against the dishes. It should grate on his senses, this tedium, but somehow it does not. It is peaceful, for lack of a better word, and little by little he can feel the tension beginning to slide away from his body.

What little appetite he has sated, he sets his dish aside and looks at Watson. The man is still dressed but he’s clearly not going back out for the night; his shirt is wrinkled and there is a small ink stain on the right cuff from where he was trying to work earlier, albeit with little success judging from his mussed hair. He’s still worried and he’s not prepared to let this rest. All of this Holmes discerns in the amount of time it takes for Watson to finish chewing and swallowing the last of his dinner. He glances up and catches Holmes’s eye, but he is so used to the scrutiny that he doesn’t react, merely raises an eyebrow in calm query.

It should annoy him, this stubbornness, but somehow… And the words feel rusty and out of place in Holmes’s throat when he says, rather roughly, “Thank you.”

Watson’s eyes widen and, for a moment, he does not respond. Then he breathes out, perhaps a bit shakily, and moves his hand those last few inches so that it just brushes against Holmes’s. The contact is unexpected but, Holmes discovers, not unwelcome. He smiles tentatively and tilts his own hand slightly further into the contact, lets it remain there so that he can savour the warmth.

\--

It would be superfluous to say that life returned to normal at 221b Baker Street, for Holmes has always done everything in his power to make sure that his life is never normal. That would be boring, after all, and boredom is something he has always endeavoured to avoid. But it does go on, with new cases and boxing matches and experiments and Mrs Hudson’s scolding and Lestrade’s tolerance and Watson’s writings, and the only thing that really does change is the fact that he and Watson gradually begin to seek each other out more physically. 

Of course, he and Watson have always touched more than is considered suitable for two male companions, but Holmes has never been one to tie in with convention and Watson, well, the best that can be said about him is that he tries. He is a doctor, after all, and thus he cannot help but notice when a patient is suffering from some ailment and want to treat it, even if said ailment happens to be a lack of physical affection and understanding. So here they are, nearly a month after Holmes first shared his story, standing so close that their shoulders are brushing and Watson’s arm is curled around his back, hand curled possessively over his hip.

It only ever happens behind safe, closed doors. Holmes looks out the window at the darkened street below and considers this, the feel of Watson’s hand, how he’s sure that if Watson removed it he would continue to feel the burning imprint of those fingers and thumb for hours to come. It’s not unpleasant, this touch, but nor does it set his heart racing. It’s simply there the way Watson always is, the way he has almost come to expect a foot against his beneath the table, or a lingering touch of fingers when their hands meet, or a thumb rubbing hidden circles on his arm when they walk together. Simple, safe, but fulfilling a craving he had not known existed. Fascinating, the things he has been able to hide even from himself.

The hand on his hip tightens fractionally and he realizes that Watson has been speaking. He turns his head slightly and looks up into his friend’s amused face. “Sorry?”

“I knew you weren’t listening,” Watson says, his smile unexpectedly affectionate. “You were completely lost in your own mind, as usual. I said, what do you wish to do about the case tonight? Have you decided?”

Ah yes, the case. Holmes is not about to admit that that was the furthest thing from his mind for these last few minutes. He says, “I have indeed, my good doctor. I believe that they will be making their move tonight and it would be best if we were there to intercept them.”

“Very well, then. We’ll sit down and have a good meal and then we’ll be on our way,” he says, squeezing Holmes’s hip just tightly enough to forestall the argument that automatically springs to Holmes’s tongue. He frowns instead and looks away, directing his gaze towards the fireplace. He can sense that Watson is smiling, pleased that he has offered no protest, and it’s enough to make him feel oddly warm inside even though there is a chill in the room.

Almost hesitantly, he lets his hand slide up and rest over Watson’s. “How about we eat on the way?” he ventures.

Watson’s smile is broader this time, visible even in the rising gloom. He seems to enjoy finding ways to sneak in touches that are not proper and is no doubt looking forward to how he will do so at Simpson’s. “You need only to ask, my dear man.”

\--

It feels good to be out in the cold, brisk air, watching as the criminal class tries to act without being seen. Better still to be at Watson’s side, concealed in the shadows, exchanging breathless grins of anticipation before exploding into action simultaneously. A cane to the side, coupled with a good punch to the jaw, and one man is down: Holmes moves forward, eyes taking in everything and assessing the weakest points of all the men assembled while Watson comes up behind him with his own method of fighting, rougher but no less effective. In due course they are the only ones standing amongst a crowd of groaning and unconscious men.

“It seems to me that lately criminals are putting forth less of an effort,” Holmes says idly, turning to face his friend. He’s just in time to see the way Watson grimaces as he retrieves his cane from where it’s fallen, and he can see the reason for it instantly: a poorly executed dodge that had been rendered entirely useless when one of the ruffians had gripped his bad arm and wrenched it to the side. 

Watson meets his eyes, perhaps sensing the concern now radiating through the dank alley, and his lips quirk faintly. “I am fine, Holmes. Let us continue.”

After a split second of hesitation Holmes nods, because their work is not yet done and he knows that nothing short of passing out will keep his friend from his side, and possibly, given enough time, not even that. Together, they turn and continue on into the darkness, the easy quiet broken only by the sound of their footsteps and faint voices coming from somewhere up ahead. Watson reaches a hand down and it reappears with his revolver, Holmes can hear the slide of his fingers over the metal, and his heart is pounding suddenly. He grips Watson’s good arm to stop his progress.

There is a pause during which neither of them speaks. Watson stops breathing, listening intently, and then he exhales quietly in confusion. “Holmes?” 

The soft gust makes the hair on the back of Holmes’s neck tingle. Like this, with his shoulder tucked up against Watson’s chest, they are so close that Watson’s mouth is inches away from his skin. Holmes can’t help the shiver that rushes through him. After weeks of subtle and outright touching that have done nothing for him but soothe the craving for simple affection in his chest, here at last is something entirely different that awakens an altogether new sort of desire. He has felt it before, of course, particularly in regards to Watson, but he has never had the need or will to acknowledge it.

“Holmes,” Watson murmurs again, and this time his voice is notably different, rougher, filled with an understanding that need not be spoken.

“We should continue,” Holmes echoes. It is a struggle to sound steady. He wants - oh yes, he can see it perfectly in his mind’s eye: one quick turn to put them face to face, the right pressure on Watson’s good arm will encourage him to drop the cane, use the advantage of his surprise to press him back against the wall, one hand looped around his neck to guide him down just right without putting any undue pressure on the man’s shoulder. The thought of such a kiss makes Holmes infinitely grateful for the darkness as his cheeks warm. 

“Indeed,” comes the response after a moment of hesitation that makes it clear that Watson would far rather do something else entirely. In spite of this, neither of them moves until the sounds of the voices can no longer be ignored, and only then does Holmes pull away and step out into the light.


	4. Chapter 4

It is late in the morning before they return, stumbling victoriously up the stairs and into the sitting room, the sound of Mrs Hudson clucking her tongue at the sight of the mud left behind on her freshly washed rugs following them. Holmes is laughing, flush with the satisfaction of a job well done as he sheds his hat and coat, allowing them to fall where they will on the floor. Watson, just behind, shakes his head and sighs as he leans his cane against his chair. He eases himself down onto the cushion and watches Holmes for a moment, soft, the way a man might gaze upon a glass of good whiskey before indulging.

Holmes turns, catching his eye, and his smile grows a shade shyer. “It was a good show tonight, old boy,” he says, running a hand through his hair. 

“Indeed. I believe that Lestrade will have his hands full for a while,” Watson agrees, fingers absently probing at his shoulder. His wound aches from being wrenched, a deep throbbing that travels the length of his arm, and he knows that it will be some days before he is free to move without pain. There is nothing to be done for it but to bear it in stoic silence.

“Your shoulder pains you,” Homes says then, as though reading the thoughts passing across his dear friend’s face. “Would you permit…”

The uncharacteristic silence is enough to make Watson look over at him again. Never in his life has he known Sherlock Holmes to be hesitant, yet here it is and the man seems to be apprehensive of Watson’s reaction to what he is about to suggest. “Go on, Holmes,” he urges.

“I’ve learned a technique. It may help to relax the muscles,” he explains. 

“I’d be willing to let you try, provided it does not involve the use of your chemistry equipment.” Mouth quirked in a smile, Watson levers himself to his feet, grimacing slightly as it seems that all of his muscles are determined to spasm. “Perhaps I’ll trouble Mrs Hudson for a bath first.” He examines the splatters of mud on his clothing ruefully, noting that here and there blood has mixed in with the mire. 

Holmes nods. “I shall meet you in your room once you’re done,” he says, and disappears into his own bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. 

For a long minute, Watson remains where he is, gazing thoughtfully at that door. He has made it his duty to touch Holmes as much as possible during the past few weeks, both subtly and overtly, trying to get Holmes used to physical affection that has no underlying meaning. He suspects the detective believes it to be a matter of a doctor treating a patient, and to an extent that is true, but there is no mistaking the fact that his desire for Holmes to be well runs far deeper than that. More often than not, he wants very much to take the man into his arms and kiss him senseless. He’s had very pleasant dreams about that and more, and Watson wants to know what it would be like to experience it while awake.

Until now, until this night, he hasn’t thought that Holmes would ever be willing to accept those kinds of overtures, and understandably so. But remembering what had passed between them in the alley gives him new hope that perhaps Holmes is of a stronger constitution than he originally guessed. There may be, Watson thinks with a slight flush, hope for more to come to pass between them, and if he’s not mistaken it may happen as soon as he’s finished bathing. 

He goes to call for Mrs Hudson immediately.

\--

Holmes is nervous, though he is doing his best to keep the annoying emotion at bay. Behind the relative safety of a firmly closed door, he paces back and forth in the small space available admist the clutter, too wound up to even think of relaxing. He can easily hear the bustling sounds that mean a bath is being prepared, so it likely won’t be long before Watson is ready to take him up on his offer. The offer that, though freely given, Holmes is no longer entirely certain that he wishes to follow through on. 

Several weeks of unaccustomed but gentle touching has helped in convincing him that Watson will not act like Victor Trevor. Logically, of course, Holmes has always known this, and he has no reason to doubt his good friend, but he has found that emotions, particularly fear and distrust, are not always rational. It is all too easy for him to imagine having the same kind of experience that he did before, and it is all the more terrifying because he knows he would not stop Watson, even knowing what is coming. If his friend truly wanted to take his pleasure from Holmes’s body, Holmes would let him. He would not fight.

Entering that room with Watson means he is prepared to accept that. 

There is a faint knock on the door. Startled, Holmes whirls around. Watson has not had enough time for a bath yet, but when he crosses to the door and opens it he finds the man standing on the other side. “Watson?” he queries, confused, noting that Watson is wearing a dressing gown and that his face and hands are free of muck. A quick wash, it seems. He is that eager?

“Holmes. I was beginning to disrobe for my bath when I realized… that is, I thought…” Watson sighs, just once, and balances his weight against the door. His eyes scan Holmes’s face intently. “You need not be frightened of me, Holmes. I will not hurt you. It occurred to me that I have never told you that, but I feel that it something you need to hear.”

“Oh.” For possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is struck speechless. And yet, like he has given an appropriate response, Watson nods and reaches out, gently sliding his hand over Holmes’s cheek. He rubs at the rough stubble with a faint smile, his thumb brushing a strand of hair away. The touch is impossibly light and in spite of himself Holmes lean into it just a little. A sad smile crosses Watson’s face.

“What happened between you and Victor was a grievous assault against you,” he says in a low whisper. “If I could, I would track him down and force him to realize his mistake.”

“He works as a barrister out of Scotland,” Holmes murmurs, looking deeply into Watson’s eyes. Familiar eyes, flecked lightly, warm with compassion and amusement.

Watson chuckles softly. “Shall we find him together?”

“No. No, that is not - necessary.” The thought of seeing Victor again is chilling and Watson seems to understand without Holmes needing to say as much. He has never actively searched out Victor before, but that has not stopped him from having a general idea of where in the world the man is located at all times. He particularly likes to know when Victor is travelling to London. Holmes always makes sure that he is occupied elsewhere at those times.

The hand on his cheek tightens fractionally and he looks up to see that Watson’s direct gaze has softened. “My dear, if you have no wish to do this it, it need not happen. I will turn away at this very moment, Holmes, and we will not speak of it again. Things can continue exactly as they have if that is what you desire. I will not pressure you; the choice is yours.”

Never let it be said that Holmes is a man who shies away from a challenge, implicit or not. Watson’s hand is warm and he allows the gentle pressure be his guide when he inches closer. The angle is awkward, Watson is taller than Victor and he’s surprised so he’s not leaning down into it, and Holmes has to balance himself with a hand to the wall when he searches out Watson’s mouth. A startled huff is his reward, a brief moment when the lips beneath his are stiff, shortly before familiar hands tangle into Holmes’s hair and tilt his head a little, and then oh yes this angle is _much_ better.

It’s unusual, kissing Watson. It’s warmth, a searing line of heat that begins with connected mouths and runs all the way down to his belly and groin, fizzling little pinpricks like the initial pinch of a needle. Holmes shivers and Watson feels it; he pulls away from the kiss, breathing a little more heavily. His eyes scan Holmes’s face, searching for an answer he may or may not know how to find. “Holmes?” he inquires at last, anxious.

In lieu of a verbal response, Holmes takes the opportunity to put into action the plan that had sprouted in his mind the night before. He slides an arm around Watson’s neck and falls back on his heels, neatly pivoting his taller friend back against the wall. And this is even better, particularly when Watson hunches his shoulders and slips down those last few inches so that they’re nearly on the same level. Holmes surges forward greedily, wanting to find that connection again, and Watson grants it, never saying no, deep and hot and filthy until neither of them can breathe and Watson wrenches away.

“Holmes,” he repeats, but this time his voice is husky with desire, with an inflection that Holmes has never heard before but which he wants to hear again. Until now, Watson’s hands have remained in his hair but now they move, sliding slowly down his shoulders and arms, leaving chills in their wake.

It wasn’t like this last time, with his pulse hammering in his ears and the brightness of Watson’s face just inches away, open and ready for Holmes to deduce. So he does, his mind automatically cataloguing the visible flush on Watson’s cheeks, the beads of sweats on his forehead, the way his mouth twists and his nose wrinkles, and the raw little gasp that slips out when Holmes stands closer, their bodies aligning just right. Victor had been all harsh lines and stoic silence and Watson is not like that, not at _all_.

“Watson,” he manages to gasp out finally, the word tasting smoky on his lips like the tang of a good tobacco, and Watson grins recklessly. In spite of that his hands remain impossibly gentle as he finally lets them rest on Holmes’s hips, fingers spanning the curve of his buttocks. An intimate touch, far more so than he’s used to, and Holmes’s hands close convulsively in the fabric of the dressing gown. 

“It is alright,” Watson murmurs, low, and begins backing him up step by step until the backs of Holmes’s knees strike the edge of the bed. He stumbles and sits down hard. Watson sits down next to him with a quick, relieved sigh.

“Your leg,” Holmes says, suddenly regretful of the oversight.

“It will pass. It always does.” A hand rests lightly on his knee, fingers stroking idly at the inside curve of his thigh, and Holmes’s legs part with nary a sound. Watson smile and it’s all there in his eyes, just as it was in Victor’s: the heat, the hunger, the _want_. Holmes flinches, and everything stops.

Gradually the hand on Holmes’s thigh loosens and then slips away entirely, and Watson studies his expression for a long moment without speaking. This is dangerous territory: push too hard and Holmes will retreat permanently, and that is the last thing that Watson wants. Perhaps there is a way to walk that delicate line of balance. He eases his weight back until there are a few inches of space between their bodies. He is careful to keep one hand lightly pressed against Holmes’s wrist, letting that be their only point of contact until Holmes looks up at him, clearly confused by his actions.

“Are you leaving?” he asks, distressed but making an admirable effort at concealing it. If Watson didn’t know him as well as he does… but he does, and so he just smiles before leaning forward to kiss Holmes on the forehead.

“No, I am not. Frankly, Holmes, after everything you’ve put me through it would take considerably more to make me leave,” Watson replies. It does not seem prudent to mention that at this point he doubts anything could ever make him leave Holmes. This man has somehow become so deeply entrenched in his life that it would be akin to cutting off a limb to remove him. “However, it does not take a consulting detective to realize that there are… more _suitable_ ways to approach this.”

So said, he leans in and kisses Holmes again, just once, on the corner of his mouth. At the same time he takes the detective’s hand in his and places it on his body, just under the hem of his dressing gown, in an open invitation. Holmes doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t even _breathe_ , and then finally he does, cautiously exploring with a tentative curiosity that doesn’t fit him at all and which makes Watson’s heart ache. But in spite of that the fact that it is Holmes touching him is _more_ than enough, and by the time Holmes’s hands drop lower to explore between Watson’s thighs there is damp heat and hardness waiting for him. Holmes’s eyes go wide and then dark with fascination, like this is one of his cases, something he can take apart to understand.

Watson makes a choked sound and bows his head as the feeling of those clever, calloused fingertips, and it’s not long before he helplessly shivers apart underneath the ministrations, one hand squeezing the bed linens painfully tight. He takes several slow, deep breaths and opens his eyes just in time to watch Holmes bringing himself to completion, one hand thrust rudely into the opening of his trousers. It is altogether mystifying and beautiful and shocking in a way that Watson feels he has somehow got used to, and it’s normal to reach out and smooth a hand over those wild curls as Holmes muffles his moans with his other hand. 

Holmes doesn’t move away, but leans into the touch.

“Watson,” he says, “that was… intriguing.” 

“Good to hear,” says Watson, knowing that, from Holmes, ‘intriguing’ is likely one of the highest compliments he will ever be paid. 

“It was not,” Holmes adds slowly, and he says this in the way he says all of his greatest deductions, like it is a rare bit of knowledge to be guarded closely, “anything at all like my prior experience.”

The rush of relief is so potent that Watson finds himself speechless. He settles for kissing Holmes very gently and relishing in the way that Holmes responds with a new eagerness. The cautious fear that lingered in the lines of his face are gone now, though Watson suspects they will return in the future, and he’ll have to do what he can to smooth the way, to prove again and again that he is not Victor Trevor. For now, it is enough that he can gather Holmes to him and lay them both down on the bed for a little while. Holmes gives a luxurious stretch and settles down half on top of him, and Watson grumbles at the feeling of a pointed elbow digging into his ribs but lets it go, and eventually - predictably, wonderfully - they fall asleep together like that.


End file.
